


With Brave Wings.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Fluff and Angst, It's just really smutty okay, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 17:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10972446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: There's something off about the way John is behaving. Harold figures out why.





	With Brave Wings.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote it like... maybe two months back, and then sort of forgot about it. But like... here we go. Have some smut. 
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely LOVELY [ SKY ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky)although I messed with the fic now and there may be new mistakes but those are totally my own. Sky is flawless.

Something was definitely wrong.

Reese had been acting, well, not strange, not exactly. Different. Harold could not put his finger on what had changed. He still brought him tea, and acted perfectly well in the field. He still initiated kisses, in the mornings when there was no Number, at night when they were leaving together, his passion still sweeping Harold off his feet every time.

Ah.

Maybe that was what was wrong.

Every time things got too heated, John took over the situation, swallowing Harold down, or taking him in his hand. Harold didn’t even get the chance to get his bearing, to reciprocate, before he would come, bliss wiping out everything in his mind, and leaving him to watch in a daze while John quickly followed. So while he has been having regular sex with John for the last week, he had not really _touched_ him.

The truth was, Harold really, _really_ liked touching John. Maybe even more than he liked being touched. He liked watching John melt under his fingers, and sigh, and arch and wordlessly ask for more. The texture of his skin, the way he cried out when Harold caressed him just right, the pleasure written on his face… Harold _missed_ it.

The situation needed to be remedied. Tonight, Harold was going to make sure things were different.

So when John slid his clothes off of him, and pushed him into bed, trailing his calloused fingers on his skin and following them with his mouth, he refused to be distracted. But John’s touch felt so nice that he let it continue for just a little while longer, letting John leave trails of wet kisses on his flushed skin. When John started mouthing at his erection with deliberation, making him moan, he remembered his decision.

Emitting a helpless whimper, he pushed at John’s shoulder, sounding pained. Immediately, John backed off, looking concerned.

“Alright Harold?” he asked, and Finch was extremely tempted to beg him to go back to what he was doing, his rough voice sending sparks down his spine.

He gathered on the meagre reserves of his restraint and shook his head, making John back off a little more. “Take off your clothes,” he ordered instead.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he had imagined the look of panic in John’s eyes, before he started taking off his shirt, and pants, folding them neatly. Harold got a little lost on the slow exposure of the skin, of the dips and planes and scars that encompassed the man so very dear to him.

John smirked, knowing the effect he had on his partner- he was drop dead gorgeous, and he knew it. Harold stared shamelessly. John was his to look at, and he refused to be shy about this.

After John came back to kiss him, blessedly naked this time, Harold whispered in his ear, “I want you to fuck me.”

John shivered at that, putting one of his legs between Harold’s and rutting. Harold had missed that too, ached for it. He hugged John and sighed contentedly, running his fingers on the vast expanse of soft skin he had been denied for so many days. John undulated lazily above him, his erection digging into Harold’s thigh, and Harold proceeded to place his nails on John’s back and drag them down, knowing John enjoyed that too, enjoyed the pleasurable pain of it.

John gasped, and _flinched_.

That was not the reaction he was expecting. Stiffening in alarm, he stopped. John collapsed on top of him with a sigh, letting Harold feel his weight. He tried to push at his shoulder, but John refused to budge.

“John?”

“Please don’t, Harold,” he begged.

“John, you’re injured. Please let me look at it.” He was trying hard to wriggle free now, but John was heavy, and apparently not interested in Harold figuring out what was wrong.

“I am not injured.” John huffed, and there was amusement in his voice that calmed him a little. But not enough.

He searched his memory for any recent conflict, but came up blank. The last few numbers had been relatively easy, and John had solved them without undue recklessness. If he had been wounded, it wasn’t on the field. Harold felt gnawing worry about what might have happened, what he could’ve missed, that put John in a situation where he couldn’t defend himself.

“You were in pain. I know you were. Let me see, please?”

“Being in pain and being injured are two entirely different things Harold. Please, can we go back to the kissing?”

Harold was tempted. He knew John could take a lot of pain, and if it was serious he would let him know. John might be reckless, but he was wise enough to make Harold aware if he was compromised in any way, so they wouldn’t be blindsided in the middle of a mission. But his arousal had already faded because of concern, and he knew he won’t be able to get back into it without making sure John was okay.

His silence was apparently answer enough, because John sighed one more time before pushing away.

“You’re a persistent little shit, you know that!” John complained without any heat in his words. He sat up, and looked at Harold with something a little like fear in his eyes. So he hadn’t imagined that after all.

“John…” He didn’t know what to say. But John shushed him.

“Please. Just promise me you won’t be upset.”

Of course Harold won’t. No matter what John was hiding, it could never make Harold be cross with him. The man seemed to be waiting for a response – as if John could ever ask for something that Harold would refuse- so he nodded, making himself look as calm as possible.

John gulped. Harold felt a slight distress because of that: whatever made John so anxious, could not be a good thing. Then John nodded once, steeling his resolve, before turning, exposing his back to Harold.

He didn’t gasp, but that was because his muscles refused to co-operate. There was no air in his lungs to make a sound. He stared, wide eyed.

Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

Cautiously, he raised a hand, and let it linger just above the skin of John’s left shoulder blade, sure that he could feel the heat from the reddened tender flesh beneath it.

He must’ve made a sound, because John went rigid, suddenly defensive against an attack, verbal or physical. “Don’t freak out.” His tone was hushed, pleading.

“John.” Harold’s voice was a mere croak, breaking, “John, this is…”

“Yeah,” he agreed, self-deprecating. “I know what this is, Harold.”

He made himself process this. It was a lot to take in, but for John’s sake, he needed to get over his shock. The tense lines of John’s back- braced for the worst- were physically painful for him. It would be so easy to break the man, so he needed to try and say this right.

“It’s beautiful,” Harold said at last, knowing he chose the right words by the relaxation in John’s posture.

“Can I?” He asked, his fingers hovering just above the skin.

“Yes.” John answered, and then repeated. “Yes. Please.”

Carefully, oh so very delicately, Harold brought his hand down, and traced the perimeter of the redness, lightly brushing his index finger around the mark. John exhaled shakily. Harold’s own breath was coming out uneven too.

It really was beautiful. Harold had not been exaggerating that. There, sitting on John’s shoulder blade was something that wasn’t there a week ago. A tattoo.

A tattoo of a feather to be more exact. A feather of a finch, Harold could tell, without even consulting a book; a feather that signified him, he could tell without asking, because of how it was kinked- not broken, just not really whole either. John had tattooed Harold on his skin. Permanently.

Harold could not wait any longer. His fingers caressed the lower edge of it, his thumb stroking it. It was slightly wet, probably because of some ointment. John let out a whine and lurched- into Harold’s touch, he noticed, rather than away.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, just to be sure.

“No. Not when you touch it. Just… the scratch before took me off guard,” John confessed.

“Why?” He asked, a while later, still fascinated, floored, his fingers tracing every line of the ink, unable to believe it was real.

“Why do you think?” There it was, the self-deprecation again. Harold pressed his thumb a little harder into the tender flesh in warning. “I like carrying your mark.”

“Do you?” Harold knew that. Knew John loved it when he left bruises, loved it when he left hickeys and marks on his skin. He tried to give him that often, loving to see them the next morning himself. He didn’t know that John would ever be interested in something so permanent.

“I like belonging to you.” John admitted in a small voice and Harold was overcome with fierce pride at that. At the fact that this glorious man chose to belong to him, by his own will. And at his courage at admitting it.

“You do. You belong to me.” Harold kissed him right on the tattoo, his lips tasting of medical salve, but he didn’t care, not when he heard John moan and buck at that. “Mine.” He whispered into the tender skin.

“Yours.” John promised.

“I changed my mind.” Harold said, and soothed a hand down John’s spine when he tensed at the words, quickly following them with, “I want to fuck you instead.”

John nodded, then realized his face was turned away from Harold, so he voiced, “Please.”

“Oh I will. You marked yourself up for me. Now it’s my turn to claim you. Complete the bond.” Harold pulled away reluctantly, watching John shudder at his words.

“Lie down on your stomach,” he ordered. As much as he enjoyed watching John’s face, right now he wanted something else.

And he got it too, staring at his mark as John opened for him easy and desperate, as he slowly rocked into him. One of his hands stayed on John’s shoulder, constantly tracing the ink, rubbing it. If he was hurting John, the man showed no signs of distress. He seemed to move into the touch, craving it.

“Mine,” Harold murmured with every thrust, and John seemed to be clutching the covers, struggling to find something to hold on to, his vocabulary reduced to _Yes_ , and _Please_ , and _Yours_.

When he found himself getting close- which was embarrassingly fast, but he blamed John for that, for taking him by surprise like that- he quickened his thrusts, angling them to make John whimper with every push. He considered reaching down and stroking John, but was struck by another idea.

Not slowing down, he placed his fingers right above the tattoo, and then, starting a safe distance up so John could stop him if he wanted, trailed his nails down the tattoo. John jolted, and then trembled, clenching blissfully around Harold. He cried out as the force of his orgasm, untouched, shook him. Harold could not hold back any longer, and followed a moment later.

He collapsed on the bed, breathless, his eyes still glued to where a lone bird’s feather was etched on John’s skin. He heard a light chuckle and looked up to see John had turned his face towards him, his eyes amused.

“I see you like it then.” John laughed lightly, making Harold flush. He had been quite transparent. But even in the post-coital contentment, he could hear the insecurity John was hiding. He had to remedy that.

“I love it,” he confessed, deliberate and sure.

“I am glad.” John’s eyes softened even more, “I was worried.”

“Then you were being rather senseless weren’t you,” Harold chided, reaching out to brush the hair away from John’s forehead.

“I am yours.” John stated, not looking for reaffirmation.

Harold provided that anyway. “Always, Mr. Reese.”


End file.
